


I Got You For That

by theprincessandtheking



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Drabbles, F/M, have some rambles, prompt fills, so here, sometimes i get ideas and don't want to write a full fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2018-11-15 20:42:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 10,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11238810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theprincessandtheking/pseuds/theprincessandtheking
Summary: A collection of drabbles and prompt fills for those of you that missed them on Tumblr.





	1. i don’t really know where the world is (but i miss it now)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on hiatus but I've gotten some messages saying you've missed my writing so I've been posting some drabbles in my free time.
> 
> This one was written post 4x11 after the 4x12 sneak peek with Abby and Clarke was released. Enjoy!

Her mother’s words ring in her head as she tucks the radio into the front pocket of her pack and closes the bag with a _zip_ that resonates in the steely silence. Bellamy hasn’t said a word to Clarke since the Grounders arrived, despite her countless attempts to get something, _anything_ out of him.

It’s a sick sort of irony, she thinks, remembering the tightness in the pit of her stomach she’d felt when they’d first brought him down to the bunker. She’d been so afraid of his anger, of what he’d say, turning it over and over in her head and imagining the worst things he could come out of his mouth so she would have some generic response at the ready. The words she’d imagined in his voice, words she’d told herself more times than she could count, had eaten at her since she’d first made the call to take the bunker.

She found that the silence was worse than any of them.

“Do you have everything you need?” she asks, eyes on the back he’s turned to her.

He doesn’t answer, just gives a slight bob of his head that makes the curls on the back of his neck shift slightly.

“Did you get the extra suit for Raven?”

He turns to nod at the red pile of fabric that rests a few feet away, his profile revealing the muscle that clenches his jaw so tightly she wonders if his teeth ache with the force of it. The glimpse of his face is gone as quickly as it appears.

And suddenly, Clarke is _tired_. She is tired of carrying the burdens of 464 people, tired of fighting for the fate of humanity, tired of playing God because _someone_ has to. But mostly she’s tired of disappointing him.

“Bellamy.”

He flinches, but only for a moment before returning to what he was doing.

“Is this how it’s going to be from now on?” she asks, a note of pleading coloring her voice that she doesn’t try to hide. “Ten hours of silence the whole way there? We get back, and then what, you’re just going to pretend I don’t exist for the next five years?”

Nothing.

“Damn it, Bellamy, _look_ at me.”

And for a moment, she thinks he’s going to ignore her again. It takes him a moment, hesitation radiating from the lines of his form, but he does. He turns and meets her eye for the first time in days. His jaw ticks with anger, jumping in time with the rapid thud of her heart as she forces herself to hold his cold gaze.

“I’m sorry I didn’t trust Octavia to win the conclave,” she says. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get her into the bunker before the doors were shut, I’m sorry I made that decision without you, and I’m sorry for panicking the way I did when you were trying to open them.”

He blinks rapidly for a moment, and she thinks with a glimmer of hope that his face softens ever so slightly. She doesn’t look away, asking, _begging_ for him to see her sincerity.

“But if you’re asking me to be sorry for the decision I made, for trying to make sure the human race survives,” she says, worrying her lip as she steels herself. “I can’t give that to you.”

She runs a hand over her face, rubbing at the ache in her temples that seems ever-present these days. She sees him swallow hard, but she finds that his jaw, still clenched, no longer pulses with barely controlled anger.

“You once told me that who we are and who we need to be to survive down here are two very different things,” she reminds him, her voice nothing more than an echo off the concrete walls. “I’m not asking you to agree with what I did.”

She pauses, and waiting for him to argue with her, to tell her that she’s damn right he doesn’t agree with her. Something other than silence.

“I’m just asking you to understand why I did it.”

She can see his shoulders tense, tugging upwards in a tired sigh as his eyes drop to the floor, but he gives no other indication that he’s heard her. She swallows the lump that sits in her throat and turns back to her pack, checking to make sure her water is sealed tightly and the food is still in bags impermeable to the radiation that hangs in the air outside. She takes stock of the supplies for what feels like the hundredth time, mentally calculating every minute this trip will take, searching for room for error where she knows there is none.

She’s so absorbed in her thoughts that his voice startles her.

“I’m guessing you’re going to want to ride shotgun.”


	2. I Left Her Behind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written pre-S4 finale based on the leaked scripts. Bellamy leaves Clarke behind.

Raven sees the tension in Bellamy’s shoulders as they peer out the window of the ship, and for a moment she wonders if he’s searching for her gaze in the blue of the sea that glows against the dark abyss surrounding them.

He flinches at the friendly hand she places on his shoulder.

“This wasn’t your fault,” she says. And though she’s never considered herself to be much of a comforting presence, she hears her voice trying to pretend to be. “There was nothing you could have done, Bellamy.”

“I should have gone with her,” he says, his voice cracking with the disuse it’s claimed since they broke through Earth’s atmosphere. “I should have been there to make sure she got back on time.”

He leans forward, head knocking against the glass with a quiet thud, shoulders heaving with a sigh that’s drowned by the ever-present hum of machinery.

“I should have been with her. And god, when I see her again, I swear I’ll make up for not being there.”

His words are so soft she doubts they were intended for her, yet they still turn her skin to ice. She hesitates, torn between honesty and the desire to console the pain that radiates from every line of his body. In the end, she decides that sugarcoating has never been her specialty.

“Bellamy,” she says, her voice echoing off the metal walls. “The nightblood treatment had never been tested. I want to believe it as much as you do, but the odds—"

“She’s not dead,” he growls. “She didn’t go to Earth, survive starvation and wars and gorillas and everything else that place threw at us just to be killed running an errand.”

She sees his jaw ticking as he straightens and squares his shoulders. He meets her eye with such ferocity that she knows his words can’t possibly only be meant just for her.

“She’s not dead.”

And the conviction in his voice almost makes her believe it.


	3. Chapter 3

“Take me,” he said, his voice hoarse with his plea. “You want to hurt her? You want to get revenge? Take me instead.”

“Bellamy, n—"

Her cries are stifled by the gag that is forced into her mouth as the other man pushes her to her knees. He considers the offer, pushing the tip of the knife into the pad of his fingertip and spinning it thoughtfully.

“Lover for lover,” he echoes.

Bellamy nods.

“Jus drein jus daun.”

Clarke’s stomach heaves as she shouts muffled curses around the fabric that fills her mouth. The twine around her wrists bites into her skin as she struggles to do something— _anything—_ to stop this stupid, selfless idiot from sacrificing himself to save her. Again.

Because deep down Clarke knows it is as much for him as it is for her. They have found a love so pure that she would not only lay down her own life to save his, but that she would rather die than live in a world without him in it.

And it appears he feels the same way.


	4. i tear myself open (you sew me shut)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: 'Can you make a fic based on Beauty and the Beast?'
> 
> So I'm pretty sure this isn't what the requester had in mind, but this fic just kind of got away from me in all honesty. Oh well. My fic, my rules.

He isn’t pretty anymore. At least, that’s what O always loves to remind him of when she wants to get under his skin. Earth—this awful, god forsaken hellhole of a planet—has marred his skin and aged his body in ways he had never imagined when he used to picture the ground. Freckles that have darkened with the sunshine are now mottled with scars carved by more blades and fists than he can count.

Bellamy had never really considered his physical appearance until the world had taken it from him. He had known he could be considered attractive, had seen the way eyes followed him as a cadet on the Ark, had seen it again when they had first landed on the ground. But it had always just been _there_ , a way to charm the people that always smiled back at him, something that had drawn the eye of girls and several guys, too.

It had never struck him as important to his identity until the day they find the bunker just south of Polis. Its mirror stops him in his tracks as his team scavenges the rest of the room. He’s pushing forty, something he never thought he’d accomplish once they set foot on the ground, but seeing the way the hard years have aged him is still a shock. Strands of silver peek out from beneath his curls along his temples, their color stolen by the burden of so many people’s lives weighing on his shoulders.

And scars, so many scars. They tear across his cheekbones and trail down his arms, each with a story that wakes him in the middle of the night before he can be calmed and caressed back to sleep. His neck is striped with three thin lines, the reminder of threats that could still be followed through upon. He sees the shiny skin of an old bullet wound from two years ago when a trade deal had turned deadly beneath his shirt just below his collarbone, and he remembers how her hands shook as she stitched his torn flesh back together. So many scars it makes him wonder how the hell he’s still alive.

The lines around his mouth have deepened, and he wonders whether they’re derived from his smiles or his grimaces. There was a time when he wouldn’t have even considered the former, back when his days were filled with unopened bottles and watching the fiery earth beneath his fingertips. But the lips that pressed against his bare shoulder as he woke this morning and the knowledge they will be there tomorrow mean it’s probably a bit of both.

He spends the majority of the hike back to Arkadia wondering when he stopped looking like Bellamy Blake.

He’s quiet when he returns their sleepy quarters, the light of the day having faded hours earlier. She is still awake, of course she’s still awake. She always is until he slips beneath the blankets beside her and pulls her close. He expects her usual sigh of contentment, expects to drift off to sleep.

But tonight she pushes herself up on one arm and kisses his temples, fingers carding through silver-streaked curls and slipping across the marks that color his cheekbones, her own hands so much softer than those that put them there.

She trails her affections down his neck, gentle yet persistent in places that makes his toes curl. Her lips press to each of the scars on his neck, each a promise, a reminder that _you’re still here, I’m still here, we’re still here._

Her lips are everywhere, leaving marks of their own that make him realize how little the others matter, how little anything matters outside of her, outside of their own little world they have created.

And finally her lips are on his, finding their home once again. She kisses him, _really_ kisses him, the way she did that first day he told her that he loved her, that believing she was lost to the burning world had almost burnt him alive, too.

She pulls away, the lips he has memorized inside and out curling into a smile, so small but it is _everything_ , and he thinks to himself that he has no idea how he’s still alive, but he’s indescribably grateful that he is. He’s grateful that he gets to come home every day to this woman, so fucking beautiful it still makes his breath falter even after all these years, and wake up next to her every morning.

Their story was not a love story, not really. It was written in blood and sculpted by blades that managed to nick them both along the way. But it is _theirs_ , only theirs. And he may not be pretty anymore, but she is as picturesque as the life they have built together. He sees her radiance in everything: in the community they have fought to protect, in the furrow of her brow when he winces with the wrong movement of his bad shoulder, in the golden curls that frame a small face that reflects his own brown eyes.

The world may have taken a lot of things from him, his youth, his sleep, his peace. But no matter how hard it tries, nuclear apocalypse, six years in space, war after endless war, whatever it will throw at them next, it will never take her. It will never take Clarke Griffin from him.


	5. you cannot fold a fire (and put it in a drawer)

“You should draw me.”

Madi’s eyes peer up at her from her perch beneath Clarke’s arm. 

“No.”

She visibly deflates, brows furrowing.

“Why not?” she complains. “You drew everyone who went to space.” Madi hesitates for a moment, her eyes darting to the floor. “You drew Bellamy.”

Clarke follows her gaze to the sketches that line the walls that surround her bedroll. One has faded slightly, its lines smeared by the habitual tracing of Clarke’s fingertips. For a moment the smudges sadden her, until she remembers that feeling the slope of his nose, the angle of his jaw, the arch of his brow, could lull her back to dreamless sleep faster than anything else ever could. Even on paper, the nightmares were no match for him.

 _Two thousand, two hundred and eighty-three days_. And though the monsters that dug for the bones of the galaxy had returned, he had not. 

“I drew them because I want to remember,” Clarke says.

“Don’t you want to remember me?”

She tucks Madi more securely under her arm and presses a cheek to her hair.

“I have you here, _Natblida_ ,” she says with a sad smile. “I don’t need to draw you.”

Madi sighs but doesn’t press any further, and Clarke feels relief swell in her chest.   She doesn’t want to tell her that drawing someone, looking at them from an artist’s perspective, changes your view of them forever. She would never forget the sharp shadows his cheekbones cast over his skin, the way the light hit the bow of his lips, the dusting of freckles across his nose that reminded her of the stars that seemed emptier every day.

Clarke knew that Life had no patience for greedy hearts attempting to steal a moment in time. The planet issued its reprimands in revocation of hundreds of tomorrow’s sketches. Her portraits were scribbled in goodbyes and colored by bloodstains, the people she put on paper the same she would soon put in the ground.

But though they were gone, buried beneath a dead earth or adrift amongst a sea of infinity, those features her mind had stolen remained to haunt her dreams. Shadows that grew darker as hunting grew futile, lips that never got to smile as much as they were made to, a star-speckled nose, would forever be the fire that both warmed and consumed her.

And while smeared lines would always be infinitely more painful than a blank page, she knows her thumb will return to them tonight when her demons come for her again. She will trace his flames and ignore the burning in her eyes.

There would always be a part of her, a part that was reduced to ash a little more every day, that hoped to see those shadows, that smile, those stars again. The flicker that tells her he will come back for her, that he _always_ comes back for her. But she tries not to let that spark catch. That inferno would burn her alive when it was finally extinguished once and for all.

She would carry the burden of remembering, but she could not shoulder her hope. The demon slayer’s blaze had been doused for good. He would not return.

After all, her portraits never did.


	6. harbor your someone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An anon sent me a song rec for Bound To You by Jocelyn Alice (Kaidro Remix), and I had to put all my angst feelings into this little ficlet. Sorry for the angst, y'all know I just can't help myself.

_I should have fallen out of love with you by now_  
But I've got part, I've got a piece  
I've got a heart permanently bound to you  
Should have forgotten what I felt for you by now

 

* * *

 

He knows that he shouldn’t still think about her. He knows it only hurts, that it’s over, that there is nothing to be done. He knows it only hurts him and distracts him from the task at hand, and he fights to push it aside to manage the days that stretch into nothingness. But in the moments when things still, when the air is quiet but for the hum of machinery that mocks the constant humming in his head, she is there. He knows he shouldn’t still think about her.

But he does.

He shouldn’t still think about the way the moonlight glinted off her hair as they allowed themselves that one moment outside the bunker, how even though he knew they should be getting back to the dropship, he couldn’t make himself give up those few extra moments with her. The silence of the woods was soft on their skin, like a blanket that shielded them from the harshness of the world they’d been plunged into. It was an illusion, of course, but out here, when the earth was soft beneath his boots and she radiated silver, he could almost forget. It was here that she’d forgiven him for the first time, had _seen_ him, had showed him what he truly was and everything he could be.

He shouldn’t think about the first time he’d felt it, the first time he’d known what it was that had bloomed in his chest. He tries not to picture the glow of the firelight off of her skin, her face soft in sleep despite the weight of leadership that pulled her down in the daylight. _It had to be done_ , he’d told her. The ferocity with which she protected her people, _their_ people, was an intrinsic part of who she was. It was because of that fire inside her eyes that she’d made the impossible choice, the _only choice_. She needed forgiveness and he’d given it to her, because really, there was nothing to forgive. Sometimes at night, when it’s quiet and he finds himself alone, he finds himself asking for hers, a soft whisper that still manages to echo off the walls that seem to close in around him. No one ever answers.

He shouldn’t think about the way her hand had fit beneath his on that lever, a perfect fit like the final puzzle piece that revealed a gruesome image. That massacre had scarred her more than any of the dozens they had committed on behalf of their people, had settled into the lines of her form until she was nothing but a shadow of the girl that first set foot on Earth. He remembers the ache that took up residence in his chest after she left Arkadia, left him. Remembers the spiteful anger he felt when she refused to return. Remembers the weight lifted from his shoulders when she finally did. But mostly, he remembers how, even as the world quite literally was crumbling around them, he felt better as a dead man by her side than a soldier with a life miles from hers.

He shouldn’t think about that last day with her, the way her arms encircled him like the hope she radiated, the hope she refused to let him lose. Her tears had been damp against the skin of his neck as she clung to him like a lifeline. How ironic, he thinks, that he had been the one to leave her to die.

He shouldn’t think about the soft gaze she had bestowed upon him as they talked of semantic impossibilities, how she had leaned into his touch, how he’d wanted nothing more than to be hers to lean on for as long as she’d let him. He shouldn’t think about the way she’d seen right through him then, just as she always had. She knew who Bellamy was before anyone, before _he_ had known himself. Clarke had a way of seeing straight to his heart, had known that it would be his downfall if she didn’t leave her mark on his soul. She’d showed him what it meant to feel so deeply it nearly smothers you. But she’d also showed him what it meant to survive.

He shouldn’t still think about what it felt like to fall in love with her. But he does.

If loving Clarke Griffin was like a breath of air into burning lungs, then killing her is like drowning, like a weight that drags him to the darkest depths until the light at the surface is no more than a memory. He’d left her behind. No matter how much he’d wished for those doors to open at the last moment, how much he’d tried to force her presence by sheer will alone, it didn’t matter. Clarke was gone.

He feels the guilt like a chain around his ankles. It weighs down his steps, makes them echo a little louder off the metal walls of the Ark. He feels it like the oxygen generators on the Ark have malfunctioned, leaving his chest so empty it burns as he tries to breathe, to keep existing, to feel something, _anything_ but the suffocating pain of her absence. Clarke is gone, until one day she isn’t.

He still feels it even when they finally make it to the ground, even when she’s standing right there in front of him, and especially when she clings to him like a lifeline, like if she lets go he’ll disappear again. She is there and she is alive and for the first time in six years, Bellamy feels the chains break from his being.

He feels it that night as they make their way back to her camp, her home, when he notices the way the moonlight glints off her hair. He’s taken back to a time when the world had already ended, but it hadn’t, to a time when the simplest things felt like the most complicated. The silver halo that had convinced him to stay, to fight, to be better, is still there, still shining for him. He smiles when he finally notices the red that peaks from beneath it.

He feels it as the fire that glows in the center of her camp flickers against the earth, warms him in his makeshift bedroll she promises to make more permanent when daylight comes. Her smile is genuine to the point of delirium, and he feels it tugging at the corners of his own lips. They talk about everything, about the day she found Madi, about algae salads and recycled water, about how the Ark had felt as cold as the Earth had scorching. They talk about everything but the one thing that keeps the burning in his chest from leaving entirely.

He feels it when he sees the flicker of the familiar fire in her eyes, intent on keeping them all alive at all costs. And then one day she is determined to stay, determined to wait for Monty and Raven’s return as the rest of the group advances to safety, and suddenly the drowning tears from his lips like a bullet from an accidental trigger. _I can’t leave you behind again_ , said with a voice that breaks at the same time his heart does. And then she is pressed to his chest, and she is whispering words into his neck, but the only ones he hears over the sounds of both of their sobs are _only choice_.

But when she pulls away, she meets his eye, and though they are red and stained by grief and lamentation over lost time, they are sure as she says, _it had to be done_. When her lips meet his, they taste like forgiveness and saltwater, and for the first time in a long time, Bellamy doesn’t feel like he’s drowning anymore.

When Madi tells him about the radio a few days later, about the routine that salvaged Clarke’s sanity, his breath catches. When he sees Clarke in front of the campfire that night, sees the way her face lightens and the smile that creeps across her face, he understands. She doesn’t need to say the words—neither of them ever do. One look at her, and he knows what kept her alive, what kept her hopeful. He understands now that for every moment he has been hers, she has been his, has always been his.

He shouldn’t know what it feels like to be loved by Clarke Griffin.

But he does.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their noise has begun to draw a crowd. He can see Harper and Monty enter the room warily, sees Raven on edge at the control panel while Emori drums her fingers anxiously against the tabletop.
> 
> “John, stop it,” she says sharply.
> 
> “Stay out of this, Emori,” Murphy says. He squares his shoulders and gets so close to Bellamy’s face he can feel his breath against his cheeks. “You think you’re better than us, Bellamy?”
> 
> For the prompt: Bellamy and Murphy getting into a fight on the Ring and Murphy taking it too far by bringing up Clarke.... give me all the pain, sister
> 
> Special thanks to @atlasbellamyblake on tumblr for knowing how much I love angsty prompts!

Afterward, he doesn’t remember what starts it. Something stupid and inconsequential enough that it probably doesn’t warrant a second glance. After living for the last four months in a confined space with only six other people, Bellamy’s learned that arguments up here can start at the drop of a hat.

This time was no different—one moment he’s discussing the schedule for training with Echo, and then Murphy says something that rubs him the wrong way, and before he knows it they’re in the middle of a full-on shouting match.

“What, you think you can just decide who does what and when?” Murphy challenges, his voice echoing loudly off the metal walls of the room.

“That’s not what I’m saying, Murphy, and you know it,” Bellamy snaps. He knows this is Murphy’s way of picking a fight, of riling him up most likely for the sake of boredom. He tries to keep his temper in check, fists tightening at his sides until his nails dig painfully into his palms.

“Really?” Murphy yells with a sneer. He strides to Bellamy, going toe to toe with him and meeting his gaze directly in spite of their height difference. “Because ever since we got here that’s exactly what you’ve been doing.”

Their noise has begun to draw a crowd. He can see Harper and Monty enter the room warily, sees Raven on edge at the control panel while Emori drums her fingers anxiously against the tabletop.

“John, stop it,” she says sharply.

“Stay out of this, Emori,” Murphy says. He squares his shoulders and gets so close to Bellamy’s face he can feel his breath against his cheeks. “You think you’re better than us, Bellamy?”

Bellamy clenches his jaw, doesn’t dignify the comment with a response. The room has gone still, and everyone knows this is different from all the other bickering that has taken place over the past few weeks. This is vicious. Feral.

“Who died and made you king?” he asks, his tone low. Bellamy grits his teeth so hard he thinks they might shatter. “Oh,  _that’s_ right, Clarke did. When you left her to burn.”

Bellamy’s fist makes contact with Murphy’s cheek at the same instant Emori shouts, “ _John!_ ”

He feels the crack of his knuckle as it meets flesh, knows it will bruise and swell and he relishes the pain of it. He turns on his heel and stalks from the room, leaving Raven and Monty behind as they call after him.

He doesn’t know what draws him to the window, but when he arrives he can’t bring himself to look at the earth that scorches below.  _When you left her to burn_. He snatches the half-empty bottle from the ledge impulsively, doesn’t think about where he’s going, doesn’t want to think about anything.

His holds the bottle in his throbbing hand, unscrewing its lid with his other, and presses it to his lips. It burns going down, stings against the rawness that has found its way to the back of his throat again.

Before he knows it, he finds himself alone in a room with a hunk of metal that resembles a shitload of nothing. He doesn’t know how Raven plans on turning that piece of crap into something that can get them home, something that can reinforce the rocket to prevent them all from burning up in the atmosphere. Bellamy can’t help but think that maybe that would be his poetic justice.

He eyes the scrap metal and takes another pull from the bottle.

Only four and a half years left to go.


	8. short days ago we lived

The election had ended just as the conflict with China had begun to escalate. Abby Griffin had won by the largest margin in the last fifty years, her popularity skyrocketing after she’d turned her own husband into the federal government for ‘treasonous activities.’ No one could deny her patriotism after that.

The public loved her, but even more so, they’d seemed to love _Clarke_. She’d been raised to smile prettily at the cameras and keep calm in the public eye. She played the role of the perfect senator’s daughter. When the tabloids had found out about her relationship with prominent socialite Finn Collins, there’d been a storm of rumors about scandals and cheating. Thanks to an anonymous tip, US Weekly had discovered a girlfriend he’d been hiding away in Brooklyn. Clarke found out from a magazine cover.

Her life changed the day she gave the press release against the advice of her mother’s staff. With Raven Reyes at her side, she gave an honest speech, firm in her assertions that neither girl knew about the other girl’s existence and assurance that both had cut contact from their mutual suitor. It was polished, poised, and reckless in a way that she’d never been in front of the camera. And the public loved it.

By the time her mother took over the White House, it seemed Clarke couldn’t go anywhere without the cameras following her, and it was soon clear that further security measures would be necessary. She would have a personal Secret Service member with her at all times, in addition to the standard security teams.

Enter Agent Bellamy Blake.

And look, Clarke really didn’t mean to fall in love with her security detail, okay? They’d disliked each other immediately, his feigned callous exterior grating her nerves and the silver spoon in her mouth rubbing him raw. It had taken a year to learn he’d spent two years in the Marines so he could get his little sister a GI bill for college. It was another two months before she learned his mom had died of a drug overdose when he was seventeen, and even longer until she’d learned his sister’s name was Octavia, and that she’d thrown away the college education he’d worked so hard for, only to get involved with the wrong people. She’d died a year before he came to work at the White House.

Two years and seven months after her mother took office, she’d kissed Bellamy for the first time. The next day, the world went to shit.

The Battle of San Francisco had resulted in nearly five thousand casualties. After that, negotiations with China had stalled, nations taking sides against one another until the entire world seemed isolated from their neighbors. It wasn’t just on the battlefield this time, it was _everywhere_. Cyberattacks that blacked out entire states for weeks at a time, drone strikes that targeted military leaders and innocent civilians alike. There were rumors of biological warfare between Russia and the Ukraine, a virus that wiped out anyone who came in contact with it. World War IV, they’d called it. It now seems that it would be the last.

Clarke is sketching on her bed when the sirens first sound, the blare pouring through her open window and ringing in her head. _No. It can’t be_. There’s a knock on the door just seconds later.

“Miss Griffin,” Agent Boggs says as she barges into the room. “You have to move. This isn’t a drill.”

Clarke watches in silence as she retrieves her emergency bag from beneath Clarke’s bed where it had been stored months ago, processing the agent’s words.

“It’s happening?” she whispers.

Boggs nods and shoves the bag into her hands.

“Agent Marshall is outside the door, and he will escort you. Your mother will meet you there.” She looks at Clarke with an intensity that screams authority, but it does nothing to mask the fear in her eyes. “You know the plan. Go. _Now_.”

Boggs turns to the windows, beginning to shut them with a force that makes the glass panes rattle.

“Wait,” Clarke breathes, “What about Blake? Have you heard from Agent Blake?”

She stops tugging at the curtains for just a moment, her shoulders seeming to sag. She turns to Clarke.

“Their plane was grounded this morning due to weather. They never left.”

Clarke can’t breathe. Bellamy had been sent to Seattle the day prior to arrange for personal security measures for an upcoming trip with her mother to rally the troops assigned to the west coast. He’d insisted on going, arguing that he didn’t trust Clarke’s security to anyone else, especially not in the area where the fighting was most intense. It was supposed to be a quick turnaround, back this morning before she’d even woken so he could escort her on the trip tomorrow. And now he was stuck where China’s missiles would strike first.

The rush to the bunker beneath the White House is a blur. She’s pretty sure Agent Marshall is forced to half drag her most of the way as she fights through the panic that keeps her lungs in a vice grip.

Bellamy isn’t coming home.

Her mother is as white as a sheet when Clarke walks through the door to the metal room. She wraps her arms around her and presses her cheek to Clarke’s hair. Clarke does nothing but stand there.

“A satellite phone,” Clarke finally rasps. She turns to the agents that line the walls with wide eyes and holds out her hand out. “I need a sat phone.”

Agent Byrne, her mother’s head of security, looks at Clarke with sympathetic eyes.

“Miss Griffin, this bunker is five stories underground. The odds of getting a signal—”

“I _said_ ,” Clarke growls, “I need a sat phone.”

Byrne hesitates for only a moment before she hands it over. Clarke dials the number she knows by heart and prays it goes through.

“Clarke?” His voice comes to life through the static.

“Bellamy,” she breathes. “Did you hear?”

Her voice is rough, like sandpaper as it tears through her throat. There’s a moment of terrifying silence before he answers.

“Yeah,” he says. “They say we only have a few minutes.”

A ragged breath breaks through her chest as she takes it in, because this isn’t happening, this can’t be happening.

“Are you safe?” he asks.

She nods, only to remember he can’t see her.

“Yes,” she assures. “We’re in the bunker.”

Tears pool in her eyes, her chest burning with sobs she can’t release. Her lip trembles as she tries to force down the lump in her throat.

“I’m sorry,” she chokes out. “I should have never let you leave, I should have—”

“Hey, no,” he says. “Clarke this isn’t your fault. This isn’t anyone’s fault but those bastards that fired those missiles.”

“Bellamy, you have to go somewhere,” she says frantically. “You have to find somewhere safe, somewhere underground.”

“There’s no time,” he says. “And even if there were, you and I both know it wouldn’t be enough to protect us.”

“ _No_ ,” she insists. “There has to be somewhere—a basement, a subway tunnel, a—”

“Clarke,” he urges.

“Bellamy, you can’t give up. You can’t just—”

“ _Clarke_.” She stops, her breathing fast and uneven, her heart pounding as she struggles to understand what he’s saying. It’s over. There’s no time. “Clarke, I need you to listen to me. Are you listening?”

Her lip quivers as the first tear falls, her eyes squeezing shut to stop the flood she knows is coming.

“Yes,” she says. Her voice breaks with it. “I’m listening.”

He’s silent for a few seconds.

“I love you,” he tells her. “I’ve loved you ever since you stopped arguing with me long enough for me to get to know you. And maybe even before then, too.”

A breathy laugh falls from her lips.

“And you are strong,” he says. “And whatever comes after today is going to be hard, but you’re going to be okay. I know you’ll want to take care of everyone, but make sure you take care of you, too, because I—” He pauses. “I won’t be there to do it. Can you do that for me?”

It’s agony, hearing these words from his mouth. The backs of her eyes burn, and her chest feels like it’s exploding with the screams that beg to be freed from her throat. She takes a shaky breath and forces herself to be here, present with him in these last moments.

“I will,” she promises. She swallows hard. “Bellamy?”

His voice is raw when he answers.

“Yeah?”

“I’m so thankful I get to know you,” she whispers. “Thank you for showing me what it feels like to be loved. And for letting me love you, too.”

The noise that comes through the phone is just somewhere between a laugh and a sob. She can hear the smile in it, can almost picture him with tears in his eyes as he stares at the horizon.

“Clarke, please just remember that I—”

Deafening static breaks through the phone. The line is dead.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: 'bellarke during the first apocalypse that happened in canon'


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: 'a slightly altered canon AU where BOTH bellamy and clarke get arrested for killing cooper instead of just clarke and octavia wants to force them to fight each other in the pit'

Clarke sinks onto the metal bench, her shoulders slumping as she puts her face in her hands. She can feel them shake against her cheeks. _Madi_ , she thinks. She wonders if Madi knows she’s here, if she’ll be forced to watch her and Bellamy in the arena. The thought makes her sick.

She’d do it herself, she decides. A blade to the wrists, quickly and quietly before he could stop her. She would not force Madi to watch Bellamy kill her. She needs to be able to trust him, to allow him to take Clarke’s place after today. After she’s gone. And besides, she could never ask Bellamy to do that. She would do it for Madi, but she would also do it for him.

She doesn’t know how long she sits there, fingers knotted in her hair, before the door opens.

“You have to hurry,” Indra says. “A few minutes, no more. This is all I can give you.”

She doesn’t understand until he walks through the door. His curls are wild as though he’s been tugging his hands through them as she has been. The look he gives her, god, it’s enough to make her leave all of her bravery on the bench as she stands. Bellamy meets her halfway, colliding together as she shoves her face into his chest with a broken sob. He doesn’t shush her, does not attempt to take away her fear with false promises that things would be okay. He simply wraps his arms around her the way he did a lifetime ago, a hand stroking her hair softly as she collects herself.

At last, she pulls away to meet his eyes, tears pooling in their depths.

“Tell Madi I love her,” she rasps. “Tell her I’m sorry.”

His brows furrow as he shakes his head.

“Clarke—no,” he stammers. “You’re not doing this— _we_ are not doing this.”

The dry laugh that falls from her lips is sharp and desperate.

“We don’t have a choice, Bellamy. If we don’t fight, Octavia will execute us both, and I won’t—” Her voice breaks. She swallows hard to shove down the lump that has risen to her throat. “Our people need you.”

“We need _you_ , too,” he counters. His hands slide up her back to take her face into his palms. He glares at her with fearful eyes. “What about Madi? _She_ needs you, Clarke.”

Clarke shakes her head.

“She’ll have you,” she says. “She needs someone to show her that you can survive in this world and still be _good_.” She places her hand over one of his own as her lip trembles. “And there is no one I would trust more to do that than you.”

A tear slips onto Bellamy’s cheek, carving a path through his freckles. She gives him a sad smile.

“If anyone can get Octavia to listen to reason, it’s you,” she whispers.

“Clarke, she doesn’t _listen_ to me,” he seethes. “She doesn’t listen to _anyone_.”

“I know she’s changed. But you’re still her brother, Bellamy. You’re our best chance for peace.”

His eyes fall shut and he leans toward her, his forehead pressing against hers. She can feel his breath fan across her cheeks, and she takes a moment to revel in it, to have this moment to remember in her last.

“I can’t, Clarke,” he whispers. “I can’t lose you. I can’t _mourn_ you.” His hand tangles into her hair as he pulls her imperceptibly closer. “Not again.”

And there is this moment where the world seems to stand still. The cell falls silent, the hum of the generators and sound of the air filtration system disappearing, until there is nothing but Bellamy and Clarke and the sound of their breaths intermingling with one another. She can feel her heart thudding beneath her ribs, racing as the whole world seems to wait to see what happens next.

“Clarke,” he breathes. “Clarke I—”

The door opens once more with a loud clang. This is it. They’re out of time.

Monty steps in, breathing heavily with a cut on his cheekbone.

“We have to go,” he pants. “ _Now_! Let’s move!”

Bellamy pushes her toward the door, one step behind her. They take the guns that Harper offers them on the other side.

“What’s happening?” Clarke asks. “Where are the guards?”

“Dead,” Harper says. “Now hidden in a supply closet down the hall.”

Monty scoffs.

“With a trail of blood leading straight to the door,” he says. He looks at Bellamy. “Quick and silent just like Echo trained us, but someone’s going to see it eventually. We have to move.”

Bellamy’s jaw clenches. He nods.

“Alright, let’s go,” he says. “If we can get to the rover without being seen, there’s a chance we can all make it out of here alive.”

“Where are we going to go?” Clarke asks. “Shallow Valley is days from here, even by rover.”

Harper shrugs her pack to her side and unzips it. She holds up a vial. Monty’s algae.

“Well then I guess it’s a good thing I brought snacks,” she says. “Now let’s go.”

Bellamy looks at her then, and she sees it without him saying a word. Sees the relief in them, the gratitude, the hope—and something else she doesn’t have time to think about right now. He places a hand on her shoulder and gives it a squeeze. She smiles.

And then they’re on the move.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: 'do you want Bell to learn about the radio calls from Clarke herself or their daughter?'
> 
> The short answer is neither. I started to answer this to explain what the dream scenario is for this situation, but I think it’s just easier to write it out, so that’s what this is, yay.

Shallow Valley had turned out to be everything Clarke had said it was, all trees and sunlight and colors so vivid it hurt. Most of what remained of Wonkru had found their own location straight in the heart of the valley, but the others couldn’t find it in themselves to stay. Bellamy, Clarke, Madi, and the others that had been on the Ark had branched off, nearby but free. A place where they could live, and not have to just survive, Clarke had said.

Eligius had kept the old village that had once been Clarke and Madi’s home, so they’d started from scratch. He, Harper, and Murphy spend the majority of their time building new cabins while Raven and Emori help design the new med bay with Clarke. It’s not much, but now it’s home.

Echo and Madi have been invaluable to help rebuild their food stockpiles. Though Madi had already known the practices of her people, Echo had been able to supplement them with Azgeda knowledge. The two worked together to bring home more kills than any of the others could have combined.

She was good with Madi, Bellamy had noticed. Sometimes she didn’t always use a firm enough hand with her, or she would treat Madi as though she were younger than she is, but for the most part they got along well. Madi seemed to like her.

They arrive back at camp today with full hands again, several squirrels and a few rabbits between them. Madi is telling her about the way Clarke had crushed various berries and flower petals to make paints.

“Clarke was teaching me,” he hears her say as she comes nearer. “I started to get good at it. Not as good as her, obviously, but I was okay.”

Echo sees him then, her eyes locking on his. She gives Bellamy a smile, but he can tell from the way she carries herself that something is off.

“Welcome back,” he says as he tries to take the game lines from them. Echo tugs hers from his grasp, but she gives him a smile. It doesn’t meet her eyes. He wants to ask, but instead he grins at Madi. “These all for me?”

Madi rolls her eyes, but she laughs anyway.

“This whole camp will starve just trying to keep you fed,” Echo teases as she leans in to kiss his cheek. She grab’s Madi’s line from his hand. “I’m going to go clean these.”

“I can do it,” he offers.

“No.”

It comes out sharply, enough so that Madi looks at her with questioning eyes. Echo seems to notice, too, because she plasters that fake smile back on her face and takes a breath.

“I like to do it,” she says. “Gives me time to think.”

Bellamy searches her face. She doesn’t give anything away, just a slight shake of the head. He doesn’t know what it means. _No? Everything’s fine? I don’t want to talk about it?_

“Okay,” he says after a moment. “Clarke and I are going out to look for some of the herbs she needs for the med bay today, so I’ll be gone most of the afternoon. I’m taking a radio if you need me.”

Echo nods, her grin faltering ever so slightly. She gives Madi a pat on the shoulder with her free hand and makes her way to their makeshift smokehouse.

“I’m glad Clarke finally has someone else to go foraging with her,” Madi smirks. “I _hate_ foraging. Clarke always takes forever and I end up with poison oak.”

 “Didn’t she tell you?” he asks innocently. “You get to come with us today.”

Madi’s eyes widen, her mouth gaping as she stares at him.

“I’m kidding,” he teases.

She rolls her eyes, but she laughs as she gives him a shove.

“Jerk.”

 

It’s nearly dark by the time he and Clarke return to camp that night, the rapidly falling sun turning the clouds a soft purple. Clarke seems to have been in good spirits today, laughing easily at his jokes and tossing a few his way in return. It’s good to see her like this, he thinks. At peace, carefree. Happy. Not for the first time, his chest aches with the realization that he missed six years of this.

The fire is already burning by the time they arrive, casting a flickering glow on the faces that surround it. They spend the evening as they usually do, telling stories as they cook their dinner, eating as they discuss the day’s events and plan for the following. By the time Clarke sends Madi off to bed, the sky is dark and his clothes smell like wood smoke.

Echo is perched at the edge of the group tonight. She’s been quiet, only speaking when someone addresses her. Bellamy tried to be near her all night, but when he got close, she found an excuse to be doing just about anything else.

Murphy launches into a story about his time with McCreary, how he and Emori had cornered him in a cave. Bellamy slips around the back of the group and takes a seat next to her.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says lowly. The attention of the others is still focused on Murphy, no mind paid to the two of them.

Echo doesn’t respond, her gaze still on the fire that crackles in the center of the group.

“Echo,” he says. He places a hand on her leg and feels her tense beneath his touch. She still doesn’t look at him. “Talk to me.”

She’s silent for a long time. For a moment he thinks she won’t speak at all, and when she does, it isn’t what he expects.

“Do you know what Madi told me today?”

Her eyes are still locked on the flames in front of them, their light casting a golden hue across her skin.

“She said Clarke radioed you every day for six years while we were in space.” She continues to stare ahead, the profile of her face blank and unreadable. “She didn’t even know if we got on the Ark. Six _years_ , she could have been talking to a dead man, and she still did it every day.”

Her words hit him squarely in the chest. It knocks the air from his lungs, the knowledge that she hadn’t forgotten him. _Him_ , she’d said. Clarke radioed _him_.

“Echo—”

She looks at him then, and he’s surprised to see no anger on her face. At first, he doesn’t see anything, just a blank stare, until he sees the sadness in her eyes.

“She loves you, Bellamy. She’s always loved you.”

And he wishes more than anything that Echo’s words didn’t send hope blooming in his chest. He wishes it didn’t matter, wishes it didn’t make him want to smile.

“I love _you_ ,” he says. Even to his own ears, he knows it isn’t enough.

“I know you do.” Her jaw clenches and her eyes fall shut as her hands fiddle in her lap. “But you love her, too. I’ve always known that. I knew it that day in Polis—it’s why I held a blade to her throat. I knew it would get to you.” She pauses for a moment before she meets his eye again. “I knew it on the Ring when you thought you’d lost her. And I think I’ve known it from the day you found out she was still alive.”

He wants to stop her, wants to tell her she’s wrong. But he can’t.

“I’ve seen the way you look at her,” Echo says. “It’s the same way you looked at her six years ago.” She takes a deep breath, and despite everything, she gives him a small smile. “You’ve never looked at me like that.”

Guilt curls in Bellamy’s stomach, because as much as he wants to deny it, he can’t bring himself to. 

“I can’t compete with a dead girl,” she says. “And honestly, I don’t want to. You deserve to have the chance with her you should have had back then.”

She places her hand over his, her touch soft and warm.

“I just want you to be happy, Bellamy.” She gives his fingers a squeeze. “You two deserve the chance to make each other happy.”

He knows what this is. He knows it’s goodbye. And maybe he should fight for her, tell her that she makes him happy, because she _does_. Maybe he should tell her that it doesn’t mean anything, that all of it was a lifetime ago. There are probably a lot of things he should say. But he doesn’t.

“I’m sorry,” he says instead.

A sad smile spreads across her face.

“I know.”

She raises a hand to his cheek, traces his jawline with her thumb as she studies his face. Her eyes are so soft, so kind in spite of her words and the pain he knows he’s inflicting on her.

“Don’t be afraid to love her,” she whispers. “Or to let her love you back.”

Bellamy clinches his jaw tightly and swallows the lump that rises to his throat. Echo drops her hand and stands, stretching her joints in a show of fatigue. She makes an excuse to the rest of the group about having an early morning, and then she is gone.

He sits there for a long time, playing back her words over the sounds of his friends’ laughter. People gradually call it a night, headed to bed or laughing with lovers. He doesn’t realize it’s just him and Clarke until she sits down beside him.

“Hey,” she says. “You’ve been quiet.”

He doesn’t say anything, guilt tugging at his insides at the way her voice soothes him. He stares at the embers that burn in the fire pit in front of them and tries to pretend he doesn’t want her to stay.

“You okay?” she asks finally.

He takes a long and heavy breath, his gaze shifting to his hands knotted in his lap.

“Yeah, uh—” He clears his throat. “Echo ended things.”

“Oh,” she says. He hears the surprise in her voice. “I’m sorry. I thought things were going well with you two.”

“Yeah.” He’s quiet for a moment. He feels it settle in his chest, the acceptance, the sadness, and if he’s honest, the relief. “But I think it was inevitable.”

He feels rather than sees her nod beside him. He knows she wants to ask, but she doesn’t. She just sits there, an ear to listen if he needs one, but she doesn’t press him. He’s grateful for it.

He’ll tell her, he thinks. Sooner rather than later this time. He’ll give both Echo and himself time to lick their wounds, to heal. But he will tell her. That she’s his best friend, his partner. That he’s always loved her, too.

But not tonight. For tonight, they sit there beneath the moonlight and the stars in what’s left of the fire’s glow. He can feel her fighting sleep, the way she starts to slump before jolting herself upright again. He hears her stifled yawns, but she is still here. To listen, to support, or maybe just to be _here_. To tell him that she will always be here.

He’ll tell her, eventually. But tonight, he’ll listen to the sleepy breaths of the girl he loves until he stands and offers her his hand. He’ll walk her back to her tent and tell her goodnight, and then he’ll spend the rest of the night alone. Tomorrow and every day after will be a struggle, as they always are on the ground. But she’ll be at his side like always, and maybe they’ll get it right this time.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: 'Bellamy's POV during the slap in 5x09'

“Clarke woke up right away, wh—” Bellamy stammers. “Why isn’t she waking up?”

He remembers the day in Polis like it was yesterday, remembers the fear that had gripped his stomach like a vice as Clarke had taken the flame. He’d held her hand in his as she shouted in pain as the thing crawled beneath her skin. She’d gripped his knuckles so tightly they went numb, but he hadn’t pulled away.

“Patience, the Flame affects every commander differently,” Gaia assures him. She looks at the table next to them and slips her hands beneath Madi’s shoulders. “Help me.”

He slides his arms beneath Madi’s limp form as Gaia cradles her head in her hands and carries her to the table. He sets her down on the metal surface and waits for something, anything, some sort of movement to let him know she’s okay. Nothing happens.

“You said you’d never done this before,” he says.

“I haven’t,” she confirms. “But I’ve been preparing for it my whole life.”

She reaches into her supplies and pulls out a scrap of leather with a clasp at either end and brings it to the table.

“This collar will protect the Flame,” she explains as she secures it around Madi’s neck. He tries not to think of how similar it looks to the one Eligius kept on Clarke, one that had left her skin charred and raw from its shock. He feels sick.

“Back away from the child right now!” a voice shouts from behind him.

He and Gaia turn to see guards pouring through the door, and there are so many, too many. Miller leads the group, a gun pointed straight at Bellamy’s chest, and Bellamy tries hard to connect the man in front of him to the friend he’d left behind six years ago. He backs closer to Madi, still limp on the table, and spreads his arms in front of her and Gaia. How did they find them? How did they know?

A flash of gold appears in the corner of his vision, and he turns to see Clarke storm into the room, Octavia close behind her. _Clarke, no_ , he thinks. He tries to convey the warning through his gaze, tries to tell her that there’s no version of this story in which Octavia will let this child live, no matter what she’s promised her.

But Clarke’s attention isn’t on him, her gaze instead fixed solidly on Madi’s unconscious form behind him. And then this _look_ appears on her face, one he’s never seen before. It’s somewhere between agony and pure terror, and it cuts through him like a blade.

Her steely glare flicks to him then, and behind the coldness he can see so much more. The anger, the hurt, the fear. The few seconds as she moves toward him feel like an eternity, her steps slow and deliberate. He opens his mouth to say something, anything that will make this better.

Her hand makes contact with his skin before he can get the words out.

It takes a moment to register what happened. In that split second, so much passes between them unspoken. He looks at her, really looks at her, sees the betrayal written so clearly on her face. The pain in her eyes hurts him more than the sting in his cheek.

 _Bellamy, if I do this, she’ll never forgive you_ , Madi’s voice echoes in his mind. He knows it’s the truth. He knew it the moment Madi had said it, and at the time he’d known that saving Clarke would always be worth it, even if it meant she’d hate him for it forever. But as she looks at him like she doesn’t recognize the man in front of him, doubt flickers in the back of his mind. He’s lost her. He feels it as sharply as he’d felt her blow.

Clarke turns her attention back to Madi, rushing to her side and assessing her with frantic movements.

“I need to get it out,” she says.

“Clarke, no,” Gaia cautions. “The Flame is bonding with her mind. If you take it out now before it’s complete, she may never wake up.”

“Quiet, traitor,” Octavia growls from across the room. “Do it, Clarke.”

Gaia steps between Clarke and Octavia, her eyes narrowed.

“If you kill this child, you make her a martyr,” she seethes. “You weaken yourself even more.”

Bellamy watches Clarke over his shoulder, sees her indecision as she stares down at Madi. She turns toward Octavia.

“I can’t.”

He sees the brokenness in her eyes, the impossibility of the choice he’s placed on her shoulders, and for just a moment, he hates himself for it. He knows that this was the best option, the _only_ option, but as he watches it play out in front of him it feels like his heart is in his throat.

Octavia is silent for a moment, her face stony and calculating.

“Take them to the rover,” she says at last to the guard beside her. “Go.”

Bellamy sees it in her eyes, knows what it means. He steps forward.

“O—”

The sound of a gun loading stops him in his tracks. Miller stands between Bellamy and his sister, the barrel of his rifle inches from Bellamy’s nose. He meets Octavia’s icy gaze over Miller’s shoulder. He knows exactly what she’s already ordered that guard to do, knows that there’s no way in hell Octavia will let them both get out of this bunker alive. He prays to every God he’s ever heard of that Clarke will figure it out before it’s too late.

The guard picks Madi up roughly and carries her toward the door. Clarke follows a few steps behind, her shoulders slack and defeated. She spares him one last glance as she leaves, and though he searches for understanding and forgiveness in her expression, all he sees is disgust. And then she’s gone.

Octavia looks at him with blank eyes, as though the man that stands in front of her is a stranger instead of her brother who’s spent his whole life making sacrifices for her. He doesn’t know who this person is. But he knows it’s sure as hell not his sister.

“Arrest the traitors.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks Kate for this super angsty prompt that made me feel a lot of things writing it! Come hang out with me on tumblr @traitorwhoyoulove!


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